


The Firment Chronicles

by Finfangillian



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Iodocus was having such a good day, Iosefka is inconvenient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 18:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10393650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finfangillian/pseuds/Finfangillian
Summary: The misadventures of the Hunter, all thanks to Iosefka.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *THIS MAY OR MAY NOT EVER BE FINISHED, IT DEPENDS ON IF PEOPLE LIKE IT OR NOT. I'M REALLY JUST TESTING THE WATERS HERE*

Iodocus reached out, groping around the dark room for his axe, a light, anything. He stumbled around, bumping into what sounded like a tray of medical supplies. Cautiously, he reached down towards it, feeling around for anything sharp that he may impale his hand on. He felt something cool, metal, a scalpel? No… It was a knife, maybe the length of one of the Hunter’s long, slender fingers. 

Figures, he thought. Of course Iosefka had a rusty knife as a surgical tool.

He carefully trailed his fingers down the knife, gently enough as to not cut his hand, until he found the handle. Worn, by the feel of it. Broken, too. A jagged split in the wood nearly halved the tired old thing. Broken. Just like everything else in Yarnham. Regardless of the state of the grip, it was all Iodocus had. He picked it up, cautiously making sure he was not holding it, with the surprisingly sharp blade pointing towards himself. That would make for an embarrassing story, he thought. 

He pressed on, stepping lightly on the creaking floor boards. It was depressing that this sickroom was one of the best maintained buildings in downtown. Why couldn’t it be something more useful? Iosefka’s room was full of… Oddities, so to speak. He was a collector of sorts. A collector of particularly hard to come by body parts. Such as hearts, eyes, thumbs, middle toes, occasionally entire hands or feet. Iodocus had never understood his fascination with human bodies, the Hunter hated them, he considered his own body such a set back, despite his abilities. 

A familiar, menacing growl rumbled from the dark. Iodocus froze. He scarcely dared to breathe, he knew that sound. Better than he’d like. It was the wolf. The wolf that had hunted him ever since the day Iosefka infused him with Yarnham blood. The monster all but craved the Hunter’s pain. The raven haired man never reveled in hunting, he didn’t like causing pain, or killing. He did it because it was what he had to do to survive. He was so accustomed to fending for himself, to being the predator, he despised the alien feeling of being the prey. 

He slowly, and silently moved back against the wall, feeling his way along in an attempt to locate the door, or a source of light. He couldn’t fight an opponent that he couldn’t see. Knowing Iosefka, there was a lamp somewhere, though, knowing Iosefka, it was in the least convenient place possible. His only option, barring the possibility of actually finding a well placed light, was to run. He was not about to let that, monster, take him. 

His hand fell upon a piece of wood, jutting out of the wall. A doorframe. A crooked smile spread across his face, and he reached towards the door, searching deftly for the knob. His free hand found its way to something cool, and round. He gripped it, twisted, and slowly pushed the door open. It creaked as it swung out of its frame. He flinched, drawing in a hushed breath and holding it. He could hear something moving within the shadows, it’s breathing grew louder. Almost resembling choked gasps. Iodocus knew better. The thing was trying to lure him back into the room, it couldn’t quite figure out where he was, all it knew was its prey was about to escape. It was feigning distress, trying to draw him in, make him let his guard down for just a moment. Not today.

He strode out of the room, careful not to make any sound, lest he alert the beast of his whereabouts. Iodocus Firment was not what one would call, brilliant, not like Iosefka. But he was the best in his line of work. Only Hunter that even Simon could remember that had lasted longer than a month. This was Iodocus’ eighth month, he thought. He’d lost track somewhere around four. 

He moved towards the exit, his spirits high with his escape. Slivers of light from outside slipped through the cracks in the wall, and the holes in the dirt coated windows. He had his bearings now, he could navigate this part of his friend’s shop if he was blind, deaf, and dumb. 

He counted his steps from the neglected kitchen, it took him 36 to reach the bottom step of the staircase that lead up to the thin piece of wood separating him from outside. He placed his feet carefully. He’d memorised which steps creak, where they creak, how loudly they creak, and from where in the sickroom you could hear said creak from. His first ascending step, to the far right. Second, exactly the middle. Skip the third, fourth to the mid-right, fifth, all the way to the left, sixth, the last step, in the center again, and then finally the landing. Thin strips of light shone from under the dilapidated door, illuminating the bloodstained rug in front of it. Iodocus stepped forwards, cautiously still, the landing was loud, and could be heard back where he had nearly encountered the wolf. He reached for the doorknob, and twisted it. Or rather, he tried. The Hunter paused a moment, then he jiggled the knob a bit, and twisted again. Still, it did not budge. He kept trying. Jiggle, twist, jiggle, jiggle, twist. Frustration welled within him. “Count on Iosefka to piss in your tea.” he mumbled, abandoning the brass handle. He turned, surveying the room about him with what little light he had. His eye scanned over the blackened windows, the decaying walls, the floor, covered in god knows what from god knows when. The door was the only exit in the room, on this floor, for the matter. He didn’t have to be able to see to know that. 

He cursed under his breath, racking his brain for any possible way out. He needed to stay as silent as he could, else he’d end up duelling an undead bloodwolfe in the pitch black dishonesty of Iosefka’s ‘office.’ Everything about this building was unsure, but the room containing the doctor’s collections, was the worst. Uneven floors, things seemed to move on their own, shadows shifted when nothing else did, that room was the driving force behind the Hunter’s paranoia. Iodocus wouldn’t stand a chance against his blood-crazed adversary in there. He needed something else, something better, even just a shred of something, anything, that he could build a plan off of. Normally when he walked into situations like this he was prepared, he had come in with a solid plan, he was one step ahead. He prided himself with this, the fact that people said he could see the future. It was their only explanation for how he anticipated what his opponents would do next, where they would dodge, which way they would swing. The wolf was different. This, Iodocus had never been able to remain one step ahead of. 

He breathed deeply, trying to sort out his thoughts. He had three options. One, he could kick down the door and make a run for it, but even if the wolf didn’t get to him before he was out of the graveyard, there was no guarantee he could get the gates open in time to save himself from his untimely demise. Two, he could attempt to sneak back through the sickroom, up to the fourth floor of the building where he could either climb out a window, or proceed to the roof and try his luck making his escape from there. Three, he could locate a lamp and try to fight the wolf head on. He deemed the third as a hopeless, last resort. Should he fail at escape, he’d have to fight the thing anyways, might as well accept it.


End file.
